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Shahzad and Sabeena It is the start of Ramadan, and Shahzad strides toward the mosque in the lightly falling rain. Sudden showers like these keep surprising the city, but the full force of the monsoon has not yet struck. At this downtown mosque, at the southernmost tip of Mumbai, even the men who work in corporate offices answer the call to prayer on time. At the entrance, Shahzad removes his chappals and ducks inside to join the rows of men with heads bowed. They touch their foreheads to the ground, murmuring in prayer. For several minutes, Shahzad dutifully mouths his prayers along with them, touching his forehead, nose, hands, knees, and feet to the ground, playing at being a good Muslim.

But then his thoughts begin to wander. Shahzad thinks of a beautiful woman he once saw on the street, and then another. He thinks about all the beautiful women he can remember: He does not think of his wife, Sabeena. Shahzad thinks of a beautiful woman he once saw on the street, and then another…. He knows what the Prophet said: For Ramadan, Shahzad has stopped taking the horse pills, the ones the doctor says will make him more like a man. Instead, the pills only make him feel hot inside. Or maybe that is just the swelter of the city. He cannot stop thinking of other women. The other day, on a very hot morning, Shahzad hugged the French woman and became excited as she hugged him back.

He looks around and sees the other men praying with total calm. He forces himself to try harder. Head to the ground, Shahzad asks God, as he always does, for a son. The afternoon wanes, and Shahzad knows he needs to get home. Sabeena will start cooking soon for the breaking of the fast at sundown. For a moment, Shahzad considers stopping at the downtown market to bring home bhajias: It has stopped drizzling, but the sky has gone dark as if it is about to pour. As Shahzad enters his apartment, he can smell the sickness in it. His mother, a gaunt woman with thin lips and carrot-orange hennaed hair, lies in a bed of crumpled sheets in the main room.

Cotton balls are stuffed in her ears. Shahzad looks around for his bucktoothed, bright-eyed niece and nephew, who usually greet him at the door. But the house of twelve is quiet. A moment later, Sabeena arrives, dressed in the black burqa she wears outside when she runs errands. Her arms are laden with groceries. She gives a perfunctory nod to Shahzad. After removing her burqa, she moves quickly around the kitchen in her thick salwar kameez, chopping vegetables, boiling water, and tossing red chiles, cumin, and coriander into pots. As her scarf falls from her hair, Shahzad stares at her. It has been so long since they made love. Soon, a spicy-sweet smell fills the apartment. Where are the children?

He bounces on it once and rings a bell on the wall above her. He leaps off the bed onto the floor and throws his arms up theatrically. Shahzad laughs, forcing himself not to clap. Sabeena watches the scene from the airless kitchen, where the pots have begun to boil. The heat is so oppressive the monsoon must come soon.

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She wishes she were a better cook. It always gets hot before the rain. Merreg she finishes the idlis, peeling them out of the pan one by one, the downpour comes all at once. It gives off a thunderous sound. From the kitchen window, she cannot see the cloud-high buildings through the sheets of water. For many days, the forecasters had promised rain, and the Hindu temples prayed for it, chanting mantras. But each day, it had not come. Parvati does not like the monsoon. To her it means clogged roads, ruined shoes, and that her thick hair goes frizzy and wild. In Trivandrum, down south where she is from, there are two smaller seasons of rain.

In Mumbai there is just one big fury. In both cities the sea grows rough when the monsoon arrives. In the living room, Ashok reads the newspaper on the couch. That Saturday, they drive to Khandala instead, two hours southeast of the city. This may sound a bit idealistic to some. End all of the headaches. End the wishing and hoping. End the disappointment and anger that inevitably follows. Become the rejector, not the rejected. No longer pursue people you are so-so on for ego purposes. We were so-so about somebody, but we went along with it because nothing better was around. Consent issues are instantly resolved. Always know where you stand with the other person. You may have absolutely nothing in common with that bartender.

Wrapped up in that sweet guy who treats you so well, except goes weeks without calling you and suddenly disappears after a couple drinks and a round of the horizontal polka? Been wondering if he really likes you? Do his excuses of being so busy all the time seem legit? Making out with a girl at your house and every time you go to take her shirt off she swats your hands away? Not sure what to say or do, especially since she seemed so happy to go out with you when you initially met her?

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